Five Names Cassian Andor Used (And One He Didn't)
by Ember Nickel
Summary: "23% of offworlders arrive here for reasons of gambling-related tourism," the robot informs him. If this is some kind of Imperial plot to lull Lando into distraction with trivia, it's about the most inane one he's ever seen.


For spookykingdomstarlight in the May The 4th Be With You 2017 exchange.

* * *

Han Solo is maybe the best co-pilot Lando's ever had, and the worst wingman.

"Guy in the gray jacket," he insists. "Checking you out."

"He's checking _everyone_ out," Lando protests, "presumably to decide whether they're undercover Imperial officers."

"Okay, but that's different."

"Everything all right?" asks an excessively perky waitstaff droid. Lando mutters something that sounds enough like Shyriiwook for the droid to move onto the next clientele, who are more inebriated and, hopefully, better tippers.

"So what," Han presses, "is Mr. Jacket just out of your league, or something?"

"This whole sector is my league," Lando scoffs. "But I thought you said we weren't looking for trouble." Not after they'd, finally, caught up on cargo deliveries for once. When they could afford to take a night off.

"Don't pretend you don't like a little trouble," says Han, "that's your type."

" _My_ type?" Lando feigns surprise. "What happened to _your_ type?"

It's Han's turn to mutter something in Shyriiwook, which Lando is pretty sure approximates "better-endowed in the chest department."

"Besides, it wouldn't be sporting to show off my conversational prowess when you haven't landed a date this side of Coruscant."

"Scared?" Han laughs. "Twenty credits says you've got cold feet."

"Like you have twenty credits that aren't half-mine anyway," Lando rebuffs him. Never mind that they'd recouped their losses on shipping, the next hundred are already going into engine upgrades. That was what they'd both decided on.

"So you are scared, then."

It isn't about money, betting with Han, it never is when his pride has been challenged like that. "You're in charge of covering our escape if this blows up, you know."

"But of course," Han said. "Chewie's been looking for a reason to dispute the tab."

So Lando crosses the bar as if it's open space, without the benefits of a jump-to-hyperspace button waiting for him. "Evening," he offers, as Gray Jacket braces at his approach.

Gray Jacket looks him over skeptically. "You're not Kroyn, are you?"

Lando wants to curse. Of course, he would have been using the holonets to wait for someone. "Afraid not."

He sighs. "Take care, then. It's a dangerous galaxy out there."

"Somehow I'd caught on, thanks."

Gray Jacket glares at him as if fighting a smile, then glances back to the door.

"I'd offer you a drink while you wait," Lando says, "but I hate to impose."

"It's no trouble," he says, "but I'd prefer my own refreshment, all the same."

Lando nods. "A hot meal, then?"

He squints. "You mean you pay the cook, and then they bring me food?"

"This moon isn't _that_ much a backwater, is it? Yes, of course."

"I suppose," says Gray Jacket, suspiciously.

Lando pages the droid—it might as well be Han's credits anyway, he tells himself—and soon a plate of fresh food is whirred over. It smells revolting, but Gray Jacket wolfs it down. "I'm Lando Calrissian," Lando offers.

Gray Jacket hesitates. "Toriem."

The bar grows louder as revelers call for seconds, thirds, but Toriem only seems to grow more impatient, and Lando tries to contain his disappointment. Finally, Toriem rises and blinks, as if remembering Lando is there. "Thank you for the meal."

"My pleasure," says Lando. "I hope you find your friend."

Toriem gives a half-shrug, as if to say _at least this wasn't a total loss_ or _the outer rim's the limit_ or anything in between, then hustles out into the night.

"I guess you win," Lando tells Han, later.

"Call it a draw," Han waves his hand. "You've got enough problems as it is."

"I don't," Lando protests. Toriem wasn't even his type. He wasn't making any kind of trouble. And even if he had been, it wasn't like he'd let himself get attached. There was no chance of running into Toriem again.

* * *

Han is staying back to adjust the final tweaks to the ventilator, leaving Lando in charge of haggling with the shipyard mechanic about the unreasonable cost of the shoddy installations, seeing as how they needed to "fix" most of the improvements themselves. Unfortunately, he can't even do that, because another disappointed customer is already in line, disputing the workmanship of a weapons upgrade. That voice sounds familiar...

"Toriem?" Lando blurts.

Both the mechanic (confused) and customer (annoyed) stare at him. "I'm afraid you must have me confused with someone else," says the customer, in a pointed hiss. "My name is Ilen Opis."

"Ye-heh-heh-hes," wheezes the mechanic, "Mr. Opis, as you can see here, you plainly signed this contract giving us full permission to calibrate your lasers to e-heh-heh-xacting accuracy." Lando hasn't even gotten to the front of the line and already he's exasperated.

He's also convinced this is the man he's met before, but he's not going to make anything of it. An enemy of an incompetent employee trying to rip people off is a friend of his. "Lando Calrissian. Let me know if I can help you."

"Not unless you know how to reprogram lasers better than these amateurs," mutters Ilen.

"Actually," Lando pauses, "I don't. But I might be able to point you towards someone who can. Once I finish up with my own bill."

When Lando does manage to get a word in edgewise, he's able to sweet-talk the mechanic down to a slightly more sensible price, a strategy that the more combative Ilen had not employed. From there, it's a matter of returning to Han with the modestly good news, and then calling for Chewie, who growls in curiosity.

"Can you show this kind stranger who I have never met before how to fix his weapons? They're not aiming right."

Chewie gives a confident reply. "Can he see your ship?" Han translates.

Ilen hesitates. "Never known a Wookiee to stab me in the back. I suppose so."

His glare, however, suggests that Han and Lando are distinctly not welcome aboard. It isn't like Lando is completely surprised—a man's ship is his fortress, after all—but still, part of him had been hopeful...

It takes Chewie a while longer, but he emerges roaring with pride, while Ilen's posture passes for satisfaction. "Nice craft you've got there," Han says. "Always safer to have weapons to match. Planning on getting tangled up with pirates?"

"Don't think it's any of your business, unless your Wookiee charges by the destination," Ilen snaps.

"It's all right," says Lando. "If you give, er, him your coordinates, you can let him know if you ever need repairs done."

"Thank you," says Ilen. "I think I'll chance it."

* * *

Lando barely notices the shadow of the Imperial droid passing over him. Han is gone; so are Chewie and the Falcon. For all the galaxy sees, he's just another law-abiding citizen.

Then he recognizes who's standing alongside the droid. "Ilen?" he asks.

"Good afternoon," says the droid, "may I introduce you to—"

"Pequar Busol," interrupts certainly-not-Ilen. "And this here is Kay-Tuesso."

"Hello, Kaytoo," says Lando, "I'm Lando Calrissian." He's not sure he'd be able to sound sincere introducing himself to this man for the third time.

"What brings you to the planet of Thrisze?" K-2SO asks.

"I don't think that's any of your business," says Lando.

"23% of offworlders arrive here for reasons of gambling-related tourism," the robot informs him. If this is some kind of Imperial plot to lull Lando into distraction with trivia, it's about the most inane one he's ever seen. And why him? For once he doesn't have anything particularly illicit to hide.

So Lando's part of the 23%. "Fascinating." But he's looking at Pequar when he says it.

"This is an incredibly irrational decision. The odds of success are inherently stacked against you."

Han would have had a better retort. Lando just asks, "So, Mr. Busol, is this common Imperial protocol?"

"I wouldn't know," says Pequar. "Kaytoo is his own droid."

"Kaytoo? Helping our empire succeed?"

"I don't think that's any of your business," K-2 echoes.

Okay, so he'd walked into that one. "Well, keep up the enlightening work."

The droid appears not to process the sarcasm, because he rattles on, "I have heard it said that a nontrivial portion of humans come to Thrisze to 'forget'. This is not _quite_ as irrational, but unless located very nearly along your hyperspace flight path is often a waste of time and resources—"

"What do you mean, forget?" Definitely not Imperial, then, for all his appearance; Lando doesn't believe they have the concept of "wasting resources."

"I mean, attempt to simulate an inorganic memory wipe in a very inefficient method that natural aging usually brings about anyway."

"Right." He turns to Pequar. "What does he mean?"

Pequar stiffens. "I wouldn't know." And he nods at K-2, as if to get moving.

"He's right," Lando calls after him.

"What?" Pequar asks.

"For looking like a pile of imperial bolts—" K-2 looks like he's about to reply, and seems probably offended—who can really tell when a droid is scandalized?—"the droid has a point. It won't _work_."

"What won't work?"

"Forgetting. You can't just forget things on purpose. People have a way of remembering without even trying. Even things someone else is trying to keep secret from them." Lando glares at Pequar. "Eventually, it'll all come back."

"And I suppose you have some better ideas."

"I won't pretend to know what you've seen. But the only way forward is to make new memories, to take their place alongside the old."

"Was there something you had in mind?"

"You seem busy," Lando says, "and I'd hate to waste your—what was it?—time and resources."

Pequar offers a faint smile. "Maybe one night."

If K-2 was scandalized before, he's amused now. "There's an 8% chance that this is an Imperial spy who's been tailing you since Keinru."

"Can't be," says Lando, "I've never seen Pequar in my life."

* * *

Maz Kanata paces between stools, nimbly dodging a duel between put out accordion players, and offers Lando another tankard. "I'm all right," he says, "thanks."

"Gift from the gentleman in the corner," she explains. "Gave his name as Ulmeo Vostal."

Lando waits a few moments until his timing won't be completely transparent before risking a glance at his benefactor. Of course. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Certainly," says Maz. "The answer might cost you."

"What's the best explanation you've heard for people whose paths seem to cross, time and again, on planets throughout the galaxy?"

"If one of them is Takodana?" She glances around the room, at the assortment of pirates who are sprawled in various postures of alertness throughout the bar, and the array of weapons at limbs' reach. "A persistent bounty hunter who doesn't understand the sunk-cost fallacy."

"And the second-best?"

She toys with her glasses. Lando turns to the tankard, avoiding her eyes. "It was not so long ago, was it, you could have asked any number of students of the Force and heard any number of answers."

"Perhaps not to you," Lando instinctively replies. "Ah—no disrespect intended."

"Not all of us are meant to move the Force," Maz goes on. "But all of us are moved by it."

As if some mystical and forbidden power that spanned the stars cared about the direction of, Lando admits to himself, his heart? "I think I liked the bounty hunter theory better."

She nods down at the tankard. "Is that any good?"

"Of course it's good," Lando blinks. "All of your drinks are good."

"Hasn't been spiked with anything?"

"I—you prepared it, didn't you?"

"For a devious bounty hunter, Vostal seems to be doing a halfhearted job of incapacitating you."

"Do you learn all your customers' names?" Lando asks. "Seems like it would be a liability in your line of work."

"Not always," Maz answers. "But if you'll excuse me, I need to go settle an Ewok's tab."

It appears from a quick look that it cannot have taken much to render the Ewok in question inebriated, and Lando doesn't envy Maz as she walks away. He stalls for a while, finishing off the last of his tankard, but eventually finds himself wandering over towards Ulmeo's table. "Lando Calrissian," he mutters, "but I can only assume my reputation precedes me."

Ulmeo nods.

"That is—thank you."

"My pleasure," says Ulmeo. "Doing business here?"

"Maz has kindly agreed to take some superfluous fuels I acquired in an unexpected business venture off my hands," Lando explains.

"Aha," says Ulmeo. "Myself, I'm looking to purchase a new ship. Well, new in relative terms, new-to-me, but..."

"The point stands."

"Perhaps letting a droid friend of mine do the negotiations was a misstep," he continues. "I'm not sure he completely understands the notion of 'haggling'."

Lando summons up a mental image of the inimitable K-2. "That would depend on the droid in question, I suppose."

Ulmeo nods. "Well, if you turn a profit on your fuel deal, it looks like an admiralty position is probably going cheap these days, the way the Empire burns through them."

Bold, even for a pirate. "I'd rather explore Takodana's wonders a little longer."

"I suppose that can be arranged," says Ulmeo, and waves Maz over for the bill.

* * *

Baron Administrator Lando Calrissian double-checks his schedule to find that he has a meeting scheduled with Rintheed Klivult. He doesn't remember booking one, but a cursory glance at the authentication records shows that Klivult was hired as an itinerant construction worker three years ago and is there as a delegate to discuss safety regulations in the industry. A bureaucrat's work, he figures, is never done.

Rintheed enters, and Lando tries to remain calm; it's the same face he's encountered time and again, whose afterimage lingers with him long after the planets where they've met fade from view. What are the odds he was from Bespin all along? "Welcome," he says. "I look forward to learning how the government can better regulate building sites."

"Actually," says Rintheed, "I think it's less regulation that could do the city the most good at present."

"Nothing wrong with a bit of freedom," Lando says. "Elaborate."

"The docking procedures for arriving ships are rather tedious and inconvenient. Of course, Imperial fleet going about official business are able to be expedited through, as is only, ah, to be expected. But being able for all visitors to take advantage of more streamlined procedures would bring about a freer exchange of...ideas. To say nothing of goods and services."

"I'll take it under consideration," says Lando. "Is this the most pressing issue facing the construction industry?"

Rintheed gives him a withering look. "Some of us work on spaceports. Crowded and slow spaceports."

"Then I'd hope you'd be able to take the initiative to improve things yourself."

"Is that an official position?"

Lando hesitates. What would anyone want with Cloud City? There's always the chance that spreading new "ideas" could put those opening themselves up to them at risk—but how could anyone join such a cause, if Rintheed is a typical representative? For all he obviously cares about Lando, he won't even give him an actual name, much less a path into joining up with others, if Lando even wanted to. "If it's exchanging ideas you want, would a holonet password suit your purposes?"

"Remote access isn't the same. Too many time anomalies with regards to hyperspace distances. Better to be there on the ground. Or in the sky, as it were."

"Of course," Lando says tightly, "there's no substitute for an authentic Bespinite. Very well, you can consider that my official opinion."

"Do you have an unofficial opinion?"

"I have unofficial opinions about many things," says Lando, "but you'd have to come see me outside of work hours to hear those."

Later, long after Rintheed departs, Lando searches the administrative records more thoroughly. Sure enough, he finds what he's looking for. There really was a Rintheed Klivult who was a construction worker in Cloud City. He had died in a work accident two years prior.

* * *

"Excuse me," Mon Mothma asks. "Are you Lando Calrissian?"

"Yes," Lando says, tensing. What does the rebel leader want with him? He's been through enough; Luke and Leia—even Han, in spite of everything—vouch for him. What now?

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she says. "Do you have a minute?"

Or is this about Tanaab? He hardly would expect that to be on top of her list of priorities, but she's clearly been juggling more than any one person has a right to keep up with for far too long. "If you need me."

"It's nothing urgent," she says. "I was just glad you crossed our path, that's all."

He frowns. "Not every day I decide to drop everything and take up a blaster, but, now that I'm here, I wouldn't miss it."

She nods. "Come on." And she leads him into her makeshift office, papers and holorecordings alike crowding a rickety desk. Perched on one corner is a banged-up box that seems to have survived many a planetary evacuation. "This is yours."

"No it's not," Lando says.

"Ah," Mon Mothma amends, "it was left to you, by one of our intelligence operatives. Cassian Andor—I assume he was a friend of yours?"

"I've never heard of him," Lando admits, but a nameless gnawing feeling is forming in his stomach.

Mon Mothma looks confused. "He was killed in action after helping us retrieve the plans for the first Death Star."

"The one that Luke destroyed," Lando nods.

"And he'd specified that anything of value to his droid should be left to him, if possible, but if not it could be given to you if it was feasible. We really didn't have anyone to spare, to track you down, but since you showed up..."

Numbly, Lando opens the box to uncover a spare, utilitarian blaster and a worn gray jacket.

"What was his droid's name?" he asks, quietly. "If you're allowed to tell me that?"

"K-2SO," Mon Mothma rattles off.

"Really?"

"Yes. He was Imperial, but reprogrammed..."

Lando no longer hears her, anger festering within him. So he'd gotten the truth about the droid's name, but not _Cassian_.

"If you don't want them," Mon Mothma interrupts his rumination, "I'm sure we can repurpose them."

"No," says Lando, "I'll take them, thank you. And—" What can he do now that he's made it clear he never knew Cassian Andor? "My condolences. He must have been a talented spy."

"He certainly was." Mon Mothma gives a small smile. "Mine as well, if they're in order."

Lando lifts the box and treks back towards his room. Beyond headquarters, it's another day at the base. Han and Leia are resisting the urge to argue about nothing again, grateful to be alive. Luke is practicing with his new lightsaber and his new hand. Staring up at the videoboards, a Bothan scout waits for any news of the Empire's latest plan, or what price the Alliance might pay to thwart it. Chewbacca passes Lando in the hallway—offering an embrace? a jostle? an inspection of the box for hazards?—before continuing outside, where the Millennium Falcon waits in dock.


End file.
